


Stuck In LA

by shiaLaThicc



Category: Good Omens (TV), Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angels, Angst, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crossover, Demons, F/M, M/M, Memory Loss, Psychological Torture, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Torture, Worried Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2020-07-17 09:24:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiaLaThicc/pseuds/shiaLaThicc
Summary: Crowley is summoned back to Hell while he and Aziraphale were dining at the Ritz, just after the Apocalypsn't. he's forced to stay in hell against his will and unable to escape... until the devil himself offers him a better option - To be Lucifer Morningstar's messenger boy until the devil could get back to earth himself.Unfortunately for Crowley, a certain angel had been about to admit the feelings he had been holding on to Crowley for centuries. As it is, Crowley would do anything to get back to his angel. And the devil would do anything to get back to his detective.//Just a quick heads up we're more invested in the good omens portion so its more Azirpahale & Crolwey centric





	1. The Ritz

"Dinner?" Aziraphale questioned. Crowley smirked, rubbing his hands together.

"Always with you, Angel."

"The Ritz?" Crowley nodded, stretching his legs as he stood up from the wooden park bench. They shared a knowing smile, and beneath his sunglasses, Crowley admired Aziraphale's soft eyes, crinkled in joy at the edges.

The two strolled through the doors of the restaurant, shoulders bumping together.

"I think I could go for some champagne," Aziraphale said as they sat down at an empty table. Crowley only smiled, his eyes never leaving the Angel's face. Crowley held the menu loosely in his hands, scanning the menu quickly before placing it down.

"Angel cake sounds nice."

"Right you are, my dear."

Before Aziraphale could signal for a waiter, Crowley felt himself being pulled away. He collapsed against the table, clutching his head in his hands as a ceaseless pain entered his head, reality ringing in his ears. Aziraphale worriedly placed a hand on Crowley's arm.

A fancy looking waiter waltzed to their table. Concern flitted through Aziraphale's expression as Crowley didn't make an effort to respond to the waiters question: "Are you alright sir?" The waiter looked between the two quizzically.

"What?" Crowley hissed, raising his head from his hands to glance up at the waiter and narrowing his eyes. The waiter's mouth opened, his expression worried, but the words that came out didn't match his lips. BEELZEBUB REQUIRES YOU IN HELL.

"Oh-" he started, "not now," he finished, regaining his balance in Hell. He blinked, whipping off his sunglasses as his eyes got adjusted to the sudden dimness. "What the hell?" he spat, the words not directed at any particular being.

Back at the restaurant, Aziraphale stared at the blank space where Crowley had been just a second before, and the waiter was looking from the space and back to Aziraphale, matching the angels' startled expression. He felt his stomach drop when he thought of where Crowley could have gone. He was stupid to think their premature happiness could last long.

"Wh-" the waiter began, but as soon as the words formed in his mind Aziraphale miracled away the memory of Crowley ever having been there. The waiter stood in place for a second, then plastered a wide smile onto his face. "What can I get for you today?" he asked in a pleasant tone, pen hovering above his notepad.

"I'm afraid I've been stood up," Aziraphale muttered, smiling at the waiter numbly before pushing the chair out.

The waiter only stared blankly at the door swinging widely as Aziraphale made his quick exit, the thought nibbling at the back of his mind that something wasn't quite right. He shrugged gently to himself and moved onto another table.

As Aziraphale walked home, he thought about what he had planned to say to Crowley. He hadn't had a plan, really, he just wanted to tell Crowley... he shook his head, pushing the thoughts out of his mind by taking around his surroundings. The somewhat pleasant weather from only an hour or so before had been replaced with light grey clouds and a chill that blew through his layers of clothing.

Crowley muffled his groan as he noticed the unpleasant presence of a fly on his shoulder and the distinct low buzzing sound coming from behind him. His eyes connected with Beelzebub's sunken in ones. Crowley tried not to shift uncomfortably. Frankly, he hated hell as much as the next guy. It lacked the warmth Earth provided and the absence of a certain angel didn't make it any better.

"We are disappointed in your actions following the beginning of the apocalypse" Beelzebub buzzed, "specifically, the parts you played in preventing it." Before Crowley could say anything Beelzebub leaned forward slightly, and snatched his glasses, crushing them against the ground with her heel. Crowley let out a little disappointed sigh but refrained from speaking.

"As past punishments proved... ineffective, it was decided that you will no longer be a field agent on Earth."

"What?" Crowley exclaimed, his attention suddenly caught, "you can't do that! I-"

"You've, how do they say it, you've 'gone native'. We can't have you up there if all you're doing is enjoying the view. We need trustworthy demons on Earth, like Hastur." Hastur, by Beelzebub's side, glared at Crowley, his eyes narrowing. Crowley found himself wishing he could be back in his apartment, surrounded by plants instead of being in Hell. Heck, he longed to be anywhere but Hell. While some demons enjoyed the unlit, noisy, cramped conditions, it was everything he couldn't stand, and he longed to be back on Earth.

Crowley nodded slowly, the sinking feeling in his gut ever-increasing. His skin crawled as he avoided eye contact with passing figures as disfigured demons walked past, tasked with their own demonic duties. They always left a certain distaste in his mouth.

The corners of Hastur's mouth lifted, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The smile dropped from his face as Beelzebub added that it would be necessary for Hastur to "show him around." Something about Crowley getting lost, but they both knew it was rubbish.

"Well I don't think that's entirely necessary," Crowley mumbled, but quieted down as he noticed the murderous glower Beelzebub was giving him.

"No tricky business, Lucifer is back in Hell after his little trip in LA and he won't be pleased if you screw up anything else." Beelzebub turned on her heel and walked briskly down the corridor, her figure meshing with the other demons milling around. Crowley was left standing alone with Hastur. Oh, he knew this would not end well.

As soon as Beelzebub was no longer in sight, Hastur put a hand on Crowley's shoulder tightly, and started guiding him down a dark corridor. His snakeskin shoes clicked against the concrete ground. Crowley glanced at the demotivational posters on the walls but didn't have enough time to read them as they hurried down the corridor. He slapped Hastur's hand away. They turned to face each other, and Crowley shuddered, feeling Hastur's warm breath against the side of his face as Hastur leaned in, lowering his voice.

"The others may not punish you appropriately, but rest assured I will have no mercy." Crowley pulled away from Hastur with a tight-lipped smile, hesitating and tilting his head slightly to the side.

"I'll look forward to it," he said, putting his hands together, "but for now, fare thee well." He waved a hand, already making his exit from the tight corridor, walking briskly backward. He heard Hastur yell at him to come back as he turned around, increasing his speed as he heard the demons careless footsteps beginning to follow him. 'There must be a way outta here', he thought. 'I just have to blend in.' He could get back to his angel, if he was fast enough.

He felt a pang of guilt imagining how hurt Aziraphale must have been when he disappeared. He was so deep in thought about his angel that he didn't notice as he slammed into a looming figure.

His eyes widened in shock as he looked up, straight into the eyes of the Lord of Darkness, Father of Lies, Lucifer himself. The slicked back hair, slight stubble, designer suit, odd cologne, it almost made Crowley laugh.

Hastur's yells still echoed down the hallway, but Crowley ignored it as he straightened his posture. "My Lord," He stammered, his mind faltering as tried to think of an apology worthy of Lucifer, King of the Underworld, Satan himse-

"Won't you shut up," Lucifer said in a startingly British accent, shocking Crowley into forgetting his train of thought as the Lord of Hell tilted sideways to look behind Crowley, to glare in annoyance at the demon still yelling profanities down the hallway. Hastur seemed to recoil as he noticed the Overlord beside Crowley, who was tapping his foot in annoyance.

Hastur huffed loudly, "My Lord, he was trying t-" Lucifer held up a hand, silencing the demon.

"I'm not interested." Lucifer sighed loudly as his eyes flicked between the two of them. He offered a small smile to Crowley, and he was forced to watch as Lucifer's figure disappeared down the hallway. Even Hastur was stunned, Crowley opened his mouth to say something, before quickly closing it again, biting down his witty remark.

Hastur grabbed Crowley's sleeved arm.

"Beelzebub won't like this," he spat, pulling Crowley along with him down the hallway.

"Well as I said before, I ought to-"

"That won't work for a second time, Crowley." He inwardly cringed, baring his teeth.

"Well, it was worth a try." Crowley smirked.

Hastur guided him to his quarters. "I'll come back for _you_ later." He closed the door but cracked it open one last time to add: "And don't try to get out. Your precious angel might not fair so well if you do." Crowley heard the door lock with a loud click.

He waited until Hastur's footsteps were far down the hallway before testing the door, rattling the handle, not even his demonic miracles working, confirming what he had suspected; Beelzebub had already taken his power away.

Everything was monotone. He paced around the small room, slightly hunched to accommodate for the uncomfortably low roof, before sitting down on the dark bed. The rusted springs groaned under his weight. He stretched his magnificent obsidian wings, as much as he could in the small room, and they caught the dim light briefly before he tucked them away again. His heart ached to be with Aziraphale in his bookshop... Or out dining with him at the Ritz.

He was going to get back to him no matter what, he thought decidedly. He craned his neck to look at the door. He only had to figure out how to escape first. He chuckled lowly in the small enclosed room. He could do this.


	2. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So basically Chloe and Aziraphale being worried, and Crowley having an actual banger of a time in hell. Don't worry Lucifer will have more time from his perspective and stuff, kind of just got carried away with the ehhhhh torture scene stuff sorry oop.

Aziraphale stared at the telephone on his desk, chin resting delicately on his wrist. Whilst he usually read or sought out new old books in his spare time, now he just stared at the telephone, waiting. Waiting for Crowley to call. 

Of course, he knew that the demon was probably in Hell but he couldn’t stop the nagging feeling that Crowley was avoiding him. He shook his head, concluding that he was just overthinking it all. Crowley would be back any day, and Aziraphale would confess, well, he would tell Crowley how he felt. Or maybe Crowley was gone. Forever. 

Standing up, Aziraphale rested his hands on the base of his back, stretching and giving a yawn. He checked his watch. 3:56pm. It was already dark, and thick clouds encompassed the sky in an uninviting blanket. 

He rubbed his temple, the throbbing of his head becoming harder to ignore as his vision filled with stars. 

Looking around the bookshop for something to do, he sighed. “I think I’ll make myself some chamomile tea,” he lied, shuffling hesitantly to the small cabinet where he kept the centuries-old liquor and, selecting a cheap red wine, popped off the cork. He smiled wistfully, tears seeping into the corners of his eyes as he thought about the countless times he and Crowley had gotten drunk together. 

He sat down next to the telephone, staring intently at the glossy beige plastic, the neck of the intricately designed glass bottle clutched in his delicate fingers. He drummed his fingers on the edge of the telephone. It was going to be a long night, one of many, without Crowley. 

Chloe tried to focus on the detective case. She really did. But the absence of Lucifer had been at the back of her mind for a while, and the wall she had put up to keep her emotions at bay felt as though it was on the verge of shattering. Their relationship had been going fine for a while now. She might have even said it was progressing into something more... 

She shook her head. The murder victim had internal bleeding... she gripped the file tightly in her hands as she examined the picture. Perhaps there was some bruising around the neck... she looked at the clock that hung forlornly on the bland grey wall, and rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. 

She should get back home to her daughter. It was getting late. She placed the file back on the desk abruptly. She could work on the case later - when she was able to properly tuck thoughts of Lucifer to the back of her mind. 

She thought about Lucifer as she packed up her desk, getting ready to leave. It wasn’t the first time he had up and disappeared like this, but this reasoning didn’t stop the gnawing feeling of anguish. She tried to stop her mind from thinking it, but she couldn't stop the feeling. The feeling that perhaps this time, there was something more to it. 

Crowley paced. He didn’t particularly enjoy pacing, but at the moment, stuck in his cell-like room, it was all he could do. It was better than thinking about – he sighed loudly. _Aziraphale._

At least Beelzebub had provided him with a bed. He supposed it was another form of torture. He could drift off into sweet, sweet oblivion for a short time, until he inevitably woke up sweaty and short of breath from another nightmare – one of Aziraphale hurt, dying or whatnot. Being burnt - killed, forever, in the fire that had consumed the angels' bookshop – was a popular scenario. And nightmares of his angel falling because of him. Or his angel hating him, hating him for being simply too demonic. And, of course, Aziraphale rejecting him, telling him that a demon shouldn’t love an angel like that. That it was simply wrong. Implausible- 

He sat up at the sound of loud, careless footsteps, no longer at ease as the echoing footsteps seemed to near his door. A dark shadow appeared underneath the crack at the bottom of the door. 

The door clicked open. Crowley didn’t make a sound as the door creaked and an instantly recognizable silhouette stood in the doorway, surrounded by dim light - but it was more than Crowley had been seeing for whoever knows how long. He squinted, his eyes taking their time to adjust. 

“Hastur,” he said in a tone that would imply that they had been friends for a long, long time, and they were just catching up to talk about the recent football game. Hastur, of course knew nothing about the recent game, or what football even was. Hastur tilted his head sideways. 

“Follow me,” the demon instructed, stepping back into the light to allow for some space for Crowley to follow. Crowley shielded his eyes, wished longingly for his beloved dark framed glasses. 

“It’s nice of you to let me out, my legs were getting a bit cramped,” he said nonchalantly. Hastur shook his head, his face remaining stony. “Tough crowd,” Crowley gestured to Hastur. An uncomfortable silence followed. Crowley’s body ached painfully, he was glad to finally leave the cramped room. But he was not excited for what awaited, whatever it would be. Maybe this would be his opportunity to finally escape. 

Hastur stopped outside a door, holding his hand against the metal surface, and Crowley heard a series of metallic clicks. The door swung open and he got a good look inside the room. It was bare, with what looked like a massage table in the very center, and cupboards lining the walls. Crowley felt his stomach turn as Hastur guided him toward the table and the door swung shut behind them. 

“Just relax,” Hastur growled in his ear, removing Crowley’s jacket and pushing him onto the table in one swift, calculated move. “Take off your shirt,” the demon said, his back facing Crowley, “or else I’ll have to. Then get on the table. On your chest.” 

Crowley frowned. Disobeying Hastur, tricking him and playing games with the Duke of Hell on Earth, now that was one thing, but being powerless, unable to stop whatever he had planned. Not good, he figured. 

So, he just obeyed, lifting his grey shirt over his head with a defeated sigh. He rested his head on his arms as he shifted on the table, the skin of his chest and stomach pressed against the freezing metal particularly uncomfortable. 

Hastur reached inside one of the cupboards and slowly withdrew his now gloved hand, clutching a syringe. Crowley rolled his eyes as Hastur pushed the end of the syringe, forcing a little of the clear liquid to seep out. That was entirely unnecessary and overdramatic, Crowley thought as he craned his neck upwards. 

The demon grinned manically. He took Crowley’s arm in one hand, carefully piercing the skin with the syringe, and Crowley immediately tried to struggle as a burning sensation ran through his body. He growled in pain, hissing through his clenched jaw as his magnificent wings were forced out from his shoulder blades at an unnatural angle. Crowley heard the quiet chink from Hastur setting the syringe down. The demon slowly pulled the gloves off, as the handling of the Holy Water was now finished. Crowley grimaced, not wanting to imagine what the demon would do next. 

Hastur ran his fingers along the wings, caressing the soft, black feathers. Crowley couldn’t help it as a whimper escaped his throat. He couldn’t see what Hastur was doing but he knew it wouldn’t be good and it would hurt, it would hurt quite a lot. He felt something lightly pressing into his neck, and he winced as Hastur trailed a cold, sharp blade from his chin to the base of Crowley's wings. He gulped, trying to lift his face off the table, but Hastur reacted immediately, slamming Crowley's cheek against the cold metal and leaning in close to murmur in his ear. 

“Not many demons had the privilege of keeping their wings when they fall.” Hastur, almost gently, ran his hands over Crowley’s shoulder blades, tracing the skin lightly with his cold, cold hands. Without warning, he harshly grabbed one of Crowley’s wings at the base, where it protruded from his skin. “Don’t see why you should get to keep them, seems a bit selfish to me.” 

Crowley swallowed. He could hear the malice, the hate, that thickly laced Hastur’s voice. “Don’t worry, they’ll still be beautiful once I’m finished with them.” Tears stung his eyes as pain rippled through out his body and he clenched his teeth. The blade slowly pierced his flesh and Crowley winced as he felt Hastur slowly guiding it along the base of his wings. Slowly, purposefully, calculatedly. 

He didn’t want to scream. Of course, he didn’t want to give Hastur the satisfaction. He muffled a mangled sob as the cold blade sliced along the bottom of his wing. He felt one of Hastur’s cold hands pressing on his back as the demon twisted the blade, ever so slightly. He blinked as tears filled his eyes. 

“Go on, cry,” growled the demon, pushing the blade further into the wing and twisting it, “it hurts, doesn’t it?” Crowley just bit his lip, pushing back the sobs. He could feel the demon sawing at the bone. 

“You could have prevented this if you simply had done what you were told.” Crowley felt his eyes widen as he heard the clink of Hastur setting down the knife. No- no, surely he couldn’t be that cruel. He screamed in his mind, begging the demon to stop but too afraid to make any noise at all. Without finishing the job with the blade, Hastur wrapped one hand around the already bleeding cut and began to pull the wing, gripping the top of the wing with his other hand. Gradually, he increased the force, twisting the mangled wing, and Crowley said nothing, only clenched his jaw, as his right wing was ripped off. Blood spurted from the ragged, torn stump, coating Hastur’s hands in thick, crimson blood. 

Hastur made sure that the next wing was slower, more painful. Crowley could feel the exposed bone. The joint connecting the muscle tissue stretching and tearing as Hastur slowly, forcefully pulled the wing from his body. 

A scream tore from his throat, echoing in the small room. Hastur reveled in the sound. Suddenly, everything that Crowley had been holding back was released. He screamed again, over and over again until it was little more than a whimper. His body felt like giving up, shutting down. 

He shook uncontrollably, his breathing heavy to the point of almost hyperventilating. His lungs burned. His vision blurry as he tried to focus on Hastur’s face, the demon’s lips forming words, but it took Crowley a while to fully comprehend what he was saying. “Wha.... what?” Crowley rasped. Hastur grinned. 

“I said – they'll look good in my office.” At this point Crowley didn’t even care about how cliché Hastur was being. His black wings hung in the Duke of Hells office. Of course. How fitting, he thought bitterly. 

The black feathers were slick with blood as Hastur set the magnificent black wings to side. Tears stung his yellow eyes. His wings. They were- 

Gone. His one bitter sweet reminder to heaven. A connection he had had to Aziraphale. 

Ripped from his body, forever.


	3. A Deal With the Devil

When he woke up, Crowley could almost convince himself that he was in his apartment still, despite the room being bone-chillingly cold.

He curled into himself more, his weight shifted on the small mattress, the absence of his wings leaving him feeling exposed. He shivered, shifting again as to not let the bone where his wings had been touch the red-drenched sheets. A thousand little cuts marred his skin. Many were trying to heal, but the continuous torture from Hastur made it particularly hard. 

Crowley tried not to vomit as he touched his hands gently to his back, trying to assess the new damage from the most recent torture, but all he did was smear more blood everywhere. The sticky liquid covered his back and stomach in streaks. 

He felt off balance. Like a major part of him was missing. Despite his wings rarely being exposed in his typical form, he could always feel their constant presence beneath his clothing. 

The chances of getting back to his angel seemed to be getting slimmer and slimmer, and he’d be stuck in hell for all eternity. All alone. 

A shadow appeared at the door the door again. Crowley’s breath hitched as he sat up straight, curling his hands around his bruised knees. 

He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take of Hastur’s mocking tone. Or torture. He shifted where he was on the bed, swinging his legs around to allow his feet to gently touch the freezing ground. 

He heard the lock click and a wave of hot air wafted through the room as it swung open. Hastur stood, leaning against the doorframe. 

Hasturs eyes scanned alongst Crowley’s blood-soaked form, flicking from Crowley’s forlorn face to the blood that trailed over his shoulders, down his collarbone and faintly across his stomach. 

Despite the fact that Hastur had allowed Crowley to keep his grey undershirt he, regretfully, had left his shirt off after the fabric pressed against the open wounds on his back caused him to flinch and curse in pain. The demon seemed to take extreme pleasure in Crowley’s frail state. 

Hastur stood broadly in the doorway, casting a dark shadow into the room. “Ready for another session?” 

Crowley cracked a forced smile, his mask having already broken after within, what, two months in Hell? Time seemed to move painstakingly slow in Hell, as was by what he assumed, design. He struggled within himself to act with his usual charisma, but he simply didn’t have the energy. When Hastur had began the torture he had made as many witty and snarky remarks as he could; aware that they would not ease the pain, but they would at least annoy the Duke of Hell. But as time had gone on, he had gradually gotten weaker, less able to care or think, and so he just took it. Hung his head and took the pain, and Hastur noticed it. The demon had increased the torture gradually, trying each time to get a reaction out of Crowley, teasing and taunting him, but he just couldn't do it. Crowley was broken. 

He just nodded slowly and lifted himself off the mattress. Pain laced through his body at each tentative step. He followed Hastur outside the small room and into the corridor, doing nothing but trailing passively behind. 

Demons peered at his forlorn state curiously, but otherwise paid him no mind. It doesn’t serve a demon well to question other demons. They all knew it was better to obediently follow orders without questioning others. Much like heaven, except without the constant guise of righteousness. 

Crowley didn’t know how he was going to escape Hell. He was lost without his demonic powers. 

As they walked down the corridor toward the familiar room, a spindly demon gestured to Hastur. “I need to talk to you.” The demon croaked, its black pupils flicking towards Crowley. “...Alone.” Hastur huffed, crossing his arms pointedly. 

“I can’t leave him,” Hastur gestured to Crowley, “unattended.” 

“Well you don’t have a choice, it’s the Lords commands.” 

“Well, get on with it then,” Hastur growled, too busy glaring at the demon to notice the space were Crowley had been standing empty. 

Crowley finally got the chance he had been waiting so patiently for; the chance to escape. Hastur expected Crowley to stay patiently, being so hurt and weakened, and Crowley expected Hastur not to notice him quietly slipping away. 

So he limped down the long hallway, the voices of Hastur and the demon fading as he got further and further away. 

As he staggered down the hallway, Crowley trailed his hand along the wall, leaving faint streaks of blood as the crimson rubbed off his fingers and onto the wall. He could almost blend in with the other demons down there; caked in blood, open wounds still bleeding, ragged face. And especially no black wings that had always made him stand out like a sore thumb. 

He was beginning to count his lucky stars. He'd assumed getting away from Hastur would be harder, but then again, he is a snake. Crowley felt his face fall as he noticed a new figure emerging out of one of the many doors that lined the hall. He gulped. It was too late to turn back now, not that he’d want to go back to the demon who tormented him to no end. 

He was wrenched out of his thoughts, freezing as a voice echoed down the hall. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t...” Lucifer paused, biting his lip and examining Crowley’s torn frame. “What’s your name again? We met in the corridor, didn’t we.” 

“I- it’s Crowley,” he mumbled unintelligibly, leaning against the wall heavily as he struggled to breathe properly. Another run-in with the devil himself, how lucky could he be. 

“You had a shirt on before,” he pointed out, looking Crowley up and down and narrowing his eyes. 

“Right,” Crowley said slowly, moving so that the devil could see the stubs of his wings. He paused before speaking again. “He said it would be selfish to keep them.” He gestured over his shoulder to Hastur, who was still engaged in conversation. Lucifer’s eyes seemed to glaze over with sympathy, understanding, but then his face returned to the stony expression. 

“I see,” the devil said, tilting his head. He held out his arm. “Walk with me?” Crowley’s Adams apple bobbed. 

“But Hastur...” he began, his voice trailing off as Lucifer waved a hand. 

“I am the Lord of the Underworld, am I not?” he asked, a smile seeping onto his face. Crowley tried to smile back at him, get in the devil's good books, but all he could muster was a worried looking, tight-lipped expression. Looking back down the long, stuffy hallway, he saw Hastur’s head turn toward him, and he nodded. 

“Let’s go.” He linked his arm into Lucifer’s, trying to remain calm as they walked, or at least, Crowley half-limped, and was half-carried by the devil. Turning his head to the side, he could feel Hastur staring at them with a wavering expression of shock and anger. 

“Care for a drink?” Lucifer said as he lead him towards a large set of stairs. Crowley swallowed thickly. 

“I’d love one,” Crowley replied, “got any good wine?” 

“I’m the devil,” Lucifer smirked, “of course I do.” 

Lucifer guided Crowley to his office, sitting him down and insisting that Crowley should relax. He snapped his fingers, a fancy bottle of wine and two glasses appearing on his desk. Lucifer's mind raced as he smiled charmingly at the red haired demon before him. Could this creature potentially help him to contact the detective? She would be getting worried at this point, and he felt like their relationship had finally been blossoming into something more than- Lucifer turned his attention back to the demon. 

The demon sat on the chair, his spine straightened stiffly as he avoided putting any pressure on his back. Something about him was, odd, yet vaguely familiar. He acted very strange too – his mannerisms mirrored that of, well, a human. 

Lucifer grimaced when he saw the damage that had been done to his wings, or at least, the stumps that were left. They were ripped and torn, and painful, judging by the way he held himself so carefully, as to not touch his wings to the back of the chair... 

Lucifer poured the blood red liquid into two intricate crystal glasses, making sure only to fill them just enough. He handed one glass to the demon and sank into the identical chair across from Crowley. 

The glass Lucifer held clinked as he placed it on the desk, thinking carefully about what to say to the demon. He strained his memory, trying to remember the fallen angel’s name. He hadn’t really caught it earlier. Something clicked in place as he stared deeply into the demons slit eyes. The snake. “Listen, Crawley-?” 

Crowley grimaced from where he was sitting on a comfy chair, shifting as his hands ran along his shoulders. The demon seemed like he was in a lot of pain. “It’s Crow...” The demon croaked before coughing up what seemed to be – Lucifer frowned - blood. “It’s, um... Crowley.” The demon wiped his hand on his pants, the pants already torn and darkened with dried blood. 

“Okay,” Lucifer said, pausing, “just, hold on a moment.” 

With a click, Lucifer materialized a grey, loose-fitting shirt and handed it to Crowley and the dark, dried blood that had covered his body vanished. Crowley slumped downwards in the chair as he felt his wounds close and his bones crack back into place. He took the shirt Lucifer handed him gratefully, shrugging it slowly over his shoulders. He sighed at the momentary relief from the pain, but his mind returned to the remnants of his wings on his back. They weren’t possible to heal with miracles. Hastur had made sure of that. 

“Right, now that’s all good, I want to ask you a few questions.” Crowley nodded hesitantly, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on top of the arch. 

“Shoot,” he said as Lucifer straightened his posture, intense brown eyes staring deep into Crowley’s yellow ones. 

“What do you desire?” Lucifer leaned closer to the demon, his eyes flicking around Crowley’s face, never seeming to linger on one spot. 

“I want to get back to E-” Crowley began, before the words slipped out, “I want to get back to Aziraphale.” The Devil simply nodded, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. 

“And what about your wings? Do you want them back?” Crowley hissed in a way that could be interpreted as laughter. 

“Of course,” he said, narrowing his eyes at Lucifer as the Devil leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“I know what it feels like to have your wings, your freedom, taken away... but, there might be a way I can get them back.” 

“I would do anything.” Crowley choked. 

“Well... if you’re willing to make a deal with the devil.” Lucifer smirked, thinking to himself: this is bound to be interesting...


	4. The City of Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally gets the call he's been waiting for.

It had been half a year since Aziraphale had seen anything of Crowley. Of course, Aziraphale had gone centuries without seeing the demon, but he assumed after – _after everything_ – things would be different now. Of course, he was wrong. But it wasn’t just the lack of the demon’s face that he missed; it was his very presence. Aziraphale had always been able to sense when Crowley was near, but now? The signal may as well have been dead. 

Aziraphale had been trying to get on with his life, but found it more difficult than usual, without his best friend showing up every now and then. His mind would wander to Crowley, and then he would be unable to stop thinking about him even while he was reading a good book. 

At the moment, he was studying a misprinted bible. 

_Perhaps he’s forgotten about me? Moved on,_ he thought to himself as he stared blankly at the words before him. Thinking back through history, Aziraphale had always ran into Crowley one way or another. Sighing, he tried to force his attention back to the book. The page rustled as he turned it over. 

It was the one constant he had in his lifetime - through the ever-changing world he went, and Crowley would follow – more or less. Now that Heaven wasn’t breathing down his neck – he could finally admit his feelings for the demon. 

He shut the book with a slam, sighing. He hadn’t read a single word since he sat down. He moved to the bench where the store-bought sushi sat on the table, and poured himself another glass of wine. 

But now? Perhaps Crowley had cozied it up in Hell. Was having the time of his life. But that just didn’t seem like the demon he had known for millennia. Something had to be wrong. 

He heard the phone ringing from the other room. Which was, well, quite odd. He had made the phone number for his bookshop especially hard to find, and his heart leapt at the notion that whoever was calling was perhaps, someone special. _Crowley._ He looked up from his plate of store-bought sushi. 

He picked up the telephone, holding the glass of wine in his other hand, trying not to get too hopeful as he pressed it to his ear. He wouldn't be surprised if it was another damn telemarketer. He cursed Crowley for that; telemarketers were one of his most inconvenient inventions. 

“Hello?” he said into the phone, widening his eyes when he heard the response. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s almost frantic voice crackled through the phone. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said in disbelief, his voice breaking as he set down his cup of wine with a chink, “what- where-?” 

“Look, angel, I don’t have much time to talk. Meet me in Los Angeles Police Department-” the phone crackled. 

“My dear, I can’t hear you,” Aziraphale said through the crackling. 

“LA,” Crowley said breathlessly. “While- - you—Angel- " and the phone line went dead. Aziraphale gently set the phone down. He took another swig of wine. 

_Crowley is in LA?_ Aziraphale thought to himself. He pressed himself against the table, feeling the sudden urge to sit down. 

If Crowley was avoiding Aziraphale, why would he try to contact him? Aziraphale cursed himself for ever doubting him. From the way he spoke on the phone, Crowley sounded like he was in trouble. Of course, Crowley despised Hell as much as Aziraphale disliked Heaven. Earth, they had both agreed, after spending 6,000 years on the planet, was so much more interesting. 

Aziraphale gulped down the rest of the wine. _That settles it,_ he thought, _Los Angeles. How perfect. The city of angels._

Crowley growled at the telephone, resisting the urge to scream _“connect! Better!”_ at it as he slammed it back down to the cradle. 

“Yes,” Lucifer said from his armchair, eyebrows raised at the demon’s sudden burst of rage, “Hell has remarkably bad reception.” He crossed his legs, placing his fingers under his chin. “You care a lot about that angel, don’t you?” 

Crowley seemed to freeze; he knew fully well there would be consequences if his apparent feelings for the angel got out. 

“I,” he began, then stopped. The words seem to get stuck in Crowley’s throat. 

“I fell for a human,” Lucifer supplied. “It’s not like we’re that different. I’m only the devil.” Lucifer tilted his head, his mouth curled in a smile, but Crowley couldn’t help but think it was a trap. 

“It’s complicated,” was all he said. Lucifer nodded. “What do you want me to do?” Crowley said, desperately changing the subject from Aziraphale. 

“Oh, right.” Lucifer paused, taking another sip of wine and setting it back down on the desk. He spoke lowly, leaning forward. 

“Listen, I can’t leave hell without anyone noticing. But you.” Lucifer gestured to Crowley. “You can get by unnoticed, you got into the Garden of Eden.” Crowley just nodded. It would be easy, as long as Hastur and Beezlebub didn’t get in his way. 

“Don’t. Disappoint me. If I hear a single hair on her head was harmed I'll make sure you won’t have an angel to come back to.” His voice rung in the office. The atmosphere in the room darkened. Lucifer’s eyes flashed red. When Crowley blinked again, his eyes were brown. 

Lucifer clapped his hands together. “Speaking of which, your instructions.” 

Crowley adjusted the dark shades Lucifer had handed to him before he left his office. He stood on the sidewalk; a letter neatly folded in his jacket pocket. He hesitated for a moment before he turned the handle, confidently strolling into the Police Department where Lucifer claimed the human Chloe was supposed to be. Either that, _or on a case._

Lucifer had seemed so ecstatic at the prospect. It was strange to see Satan, Lord of Darkness, the devil himself - excited about something so... mundane. Crowley sighed. He just wanted to see his angel again. And he would do anything, to be able to see his – his heart skipped a beat – best friend, again. 

His eyes scanned the police department. No one paying particular attention to the demon who just strolled in. His heels clicked against the floor, stopping when he halted directly in front of the desk with the name plate ‘Chloe Decker’. The chair was empty. The cup of coffee sitting on it was cold. 

“Can I help you?” 

Crowley grinned, his eyes snapping from the desk to a pretty woman with bleached hair and blue eyes. She held a file in one hand, and, standing behind her desk, she tapped her fingers on the back of the chair rhythmically. He assumed this was the Devils ‘detective’. 

“I think we can both help each other. But-” Crowley spun around the police department, gesturing widely. “I think it would be better if we talk outside.” 

“I’m not sure if that’s necessary sir-” The detective started, but Crowley continued. 

“You see, the devil sent me.” The detective gave Crowley a one over, her eyes delving into his shaded glasses. She nodded. 

“Lovely. You first.” He held the door open as Chloe stepped outside. As the two stepped out of the department, an angel was making his way to L.A.


	5. LAX Airport

Aziraphale looked up from his book, resting his knuckles against his chin as he studied the array of colors from his position on the plane, the sky a crimson red. It was faint, yet he felt the presence of - he smiled to himself. Yes, that was definitely Crowley. 

Maybe it was just because it was his first time flying – on a plane – or maybe it was the thought of seeing Crowley again, but his stomach lurched as the seatbelt sign turned on with a _ding!_

Aziraphale packed up his tartan satchel slowly, clicking on the seatbelt when he was done and turning back to the window. The LAX airport grew bigger with every passing second. Aziraphale clutched the armrest, staring out the window with growing anxiety. 

“First time flying?” the balding man beside him asked. Aziraphale didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just nodded curtly. “What’s your business in LA?” 

“Meeting an old friend,” Aziraphale replied shortly. The man nodded, wanting to talk about his planned trip to LA but noticing the concise manner in which the stranger spoke and deciding against it, simply shifted his magazine dramatically and went back to reading quietly. 

Aziraphale was too nervous to read.

“So Lucifer sent you?” Chloe asked, folding her arms, “what did he say?” Crowley mirrored her, folding his own arms and leaning back against the low stone wall. His shoulder blades stung in protest as the fabric of his shirt rubbed against the still unhealed skin. Even with the remnants of his wings tucked away his skin was still burning. 

“Well, he basically , uh, told me to tell you that he won’t be coming back to Earth, at least not any time soon.” Chloe opened her mouth to speak, but Crowley continued, “so, I'm like his errand boy. I have to deliver messages from him to you, and in exchange I get to stay out of Hell for-” he tilted his head “-most of the time.” 

“Why can’t he just call?” Chloe replied indignantly. 

“Er, reception,” Crowley began, gesturing with his hands vaguely, “and Hell doesn’t like you – or the idea of you. It’s not good for, you know - Hell’s rep. Can’t have Lucifer falling in love or anything.” 

“Well,” Chloe began, thinking to herself, “can this conversation wait? I’ve got to work right now.” Crowley nodded. He took a deep breath, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder. Every movement of his upper body caused a sharp pain that ran through his whole being. 

“Can I borrow your car?” He asked slyly. “I’ve got to pick someone up from the airport.” Chloe sighed, but threw her keys to him anyway. 

“You can stay at my house, if you want,” she offered, “I’ve got a guest bedroom.” Crowley graciously accepted, and as Chloe specified her address, he tucked it into the back of his mind for when he would need it later. “Ta,” Crowley yelled as he turned away from the police department and swaggered towards where the detective’s car was parked. 

Crowley pulled up slowly, cautiously, to the airport, scanning the area. He relished in the feeling of Aziraphale’s presence. He whipped off his Valentino glasses, so he could see better, as he pulled into the airport carpark. 

He knew he was close. So close to his angel. He searched through the crowd of bobbing heads, narrowing his eyes. Perhaps Aziraphale was still inside? 

He clicked the button on the keyring and the car flashed as the doors locked. Usually, he didn’t even bother to lock his car, but this wasn’t the Bentley. Usually, on a subconscious level, people simply avoided his car. Yet now that his demonic powers were amiss? He didn’t want to chance getting on Chloe, and by extension, Lucifer's, bad side. He fastened his pace toward the disorganized crowd, focused on finding his angel. 

Aziraphale made his way through the throng, clutching his tartan bag tightly to his chest. He almost wanted to call out into the crowd. His heart thumped at the thought of seeing the demon again – and then, unthinkingly, he bumped shoulders with an important looking man, who gave him a glare in return. The man’s face seemed to darken as he looked Aziraphale up and down. 

“Many apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to-” 

From the edge of the crowd, Crowley’s attention snapped to the voice. His angels voice. He started heading his way towards it, pushing his way through the stream of tired looking businessmen and energetic tourists. 

“Get the fuck away from me, you faggot!” The stranger yelled, “look what you’ve done,” he said angrily as he gestured toward his bags on the ground. 

Anger seared through Crowley’s chest. He’d never wanted to smite a human being more. 

“Oh- I- that's not-” Aziraphale stuttered, his face flushed as he leant downwards to pick up the scattered luggage from the tiled floor. When Aziraphale looked up to hand the stranger’s luggage back to him, he had expected to see an angry man still glaring back at him, arms folded to his chest in agitation. What he hadn’t expected to see was the man moaning loudly, holding a hand to his nose. Aziraphale could see a trickle of blood snaking down the man’s face. 

His smiled warmly. 

“Crowley.” 

Crowley was standing beside the cursing stranger, who was still clutching his broken, bleeding nose. Aziraphale handed the man his luggage, mouthing a _thank you_ to Crowley. The man stormed away, but not before mumbling something that neither of them caught. Crowley looked ready to go after the man, but Aziraphale placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“You okay, angel?” Crowley’s expression softened as he turned to him. 

“Now that you’re here,” Aziraphale replied as Crowley held out his arm. “It’s been a while.” Crowley frowned for a second, then his face went back to pleasant indifference, his expression unreadable under his dark glasses. 

“We can catch up properly in the car.” They linked arms and Crowley led Aziraphale to the car, the two chatting away. The mood in the air seemed pleasant, but lingering were the ghosts of dark, burning, unspoken questions. 

Walking side by side with Crowley, being with the demon again, Aziraphale felt his so deeply pushed down feelings for him re-emerge in full force. He knew what he wanted to say, he just didn’t have the courage to tell the demon how he felt. Yet. 

The lights of the car flashed as Crowley pressed the button in his pocket. Aziraphale tilted his head. 

“The Bentley?” 

“Still in London. Heaven, I hope it’s alright,” Crowley said. He hadn’t given much thought to his prized vintage car; he prayed it was still in its pristine condition, after the Antichrist had restored it. 

“Ahhh, then who does this belong to?” Aziraphale questioned, looking at the plain, modern vehicle cautiously. Certainly not Crowley’s style. 

“I’m just borrowing it for now.” He slipped his hand along the top of the car as he dropped into the seat. He turned the key in the ignition, sitting straight and putting both hands on the wheel. 

Aziraphale sank into the car seat, resting his head on his palm. Crowley’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. The cheerful conversation that had persisted weakly since leaving the airport suddenly died, a heavy stifling silence followed. Crowley turned on the radio, pop music blasting out of the speakers. They both cringed, and Crowley cursed the detective’s taste in music. 

“Here,” Aziraphale said softly, and with a blink the artist changed to one of Crowley’s favourites – Queen. 

There was a long pause before the angel spoke again, since Crowley didn’t seem to want to. “Where did you go?” 

_“Where do you think?”_ There was just a hint of anger, frustration, in Crowley’s voice, and Aziraphale pretended not to be affected by it. He turned back to look out the window, sighing quietly. “How long has it been?” Crowley asked, his voice little more than a nervous whisper. 

“Around six months.” Aziraphale’s frowned deepened. The car sped up slightly, barely noticeably. 

“Six months, eh?” Crowley fixed his eyes to the road. He arched his back awkwardly, the pain ebbing from where his wings had been, almost overbearing. His vision blurred a little. He adjusted his sunglasses with trembling hands, desperately hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. Aziraphale noticed. His eyes flooded with concern at the strangely sickly look of the demon, cursing himself for not noticing earlier. 

He frowned, staring at the demon’s straight posture. He never sat that straight, always slouched in his seat with one hand on the steering wheel. It was just a part of – well, his nature. Aziraphale had always reprimanded him for slouching, but now his straightened spine just seemed off. Not like him. 

Although Aziraphale wanted desperately to ask Crowley _What did they do to you?_ He contained himself and instead asked, more casually: 

“Are you alright, my dear?” He tried to hide the tremble in his voice. Crowley nodded, gritting his teeth and breathing out sharply through them. Aziraphale made to place his hand to Crowley’s wrist comfortingly. Crowley swiftly turned the steering wheel, making the car lurch a little on the highway. 

“Maybe you should pull over. You don’t seem to be in a good state.” 

“I’m fine.” Crowley hissed; the car roared as Crowley placed a foot on the accelerator. 

_“Dear.”_

Aziraphale knew fully well how Crowley was deflecting. Something was undoubtedly wrong. He didn’t want to press the issue, though, as he was now focused on driving. 

Lights flickered past, a headlight appeared directly in front of them. 

“Crowley! Don’t you think you’re taking this too-” The car jerked diagonally, diving off the road. Aziraphale covered his head with his arms as the front of the car crumpled into a tree. There was a dull thud as Crowley’s forehead interacted with the steering wheel, and he groaned quietly as he brought a hand to his head. 

Crowley panted, pushing his body, using the steering wheel to keep his arms straight as he stared out of the windscreen. His vision swam, ears ringing intensely. Crowley’s eyes flitted up to look at the smoking bonnet, his chest shuddering. His feelings felt like they were on the verge of crashing down over him at any moment now. He can’t, absolutely cannot, break down in front of the angel. 

As Aziraphale looked at the demon’s face he could’ve sworn his cheeks were wet, but Crowley quickly wiped his face with his sleeve before Aziraphale could be sure. 

They breathed heavily, silent except for the hiss of the engine and the radio, which spat out shattered fragments of Bohemian Rhapsody. 

_If I’m not back again this time tomorrow–_

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The road was empty, the street silent. Crowley choked out laughter as it built in his chest. 

“What’s so funny?” The angel could help as a smile formed on his lips, wispy smoke billowing from the engine. Crowley turned to him with an earsplitting grin. 

_Carry on, carry on. As if nothing ever happened. The radio clicked off, finally giving up._

“Nothing. Everything.” He gestured to the wreckage. “I’ve missed this – I've missed you, angel.” He said it so quietly Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he heard right. The pace of his heart quickened in his chest. 

“Dear,” he began, but paused, trying to think of what to say. 

_I love you._

Instead, the words, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. Crowley didn’t say anything as Aziraphale continued. “The bookshop felt so quiet without you around. And even eating got a bit, you know, mundane.” He reached out to touch his fingers to Crowley’s hand, still gripping the wheel. He felt the demon stiffen under his touch and felt as though he had done the wrong thing – but then Crowley relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. Crowley leaned, ever so slightly, leaned towards Aziraphale. The angel felt his eyes widen. Crowley’s eyelids drooped, and all was silent apart from the steaming of the wrecked car and their breathing. 

A car rolled slowly to a stop behind them, tires crunching on the gravel. 

A middle-aged man appeared at the window, tapping on the window, split with fine cracks. “Are you two fellas alright?” They two jolted apart at the sight of the man from the corner of their vision. Crowley went back to sitting stiffly, hands positioned on the wheel. 

“Yes, yes. Fine, thank you.” Aziraphale smiled from the window seat. The man hovered at the car door; his face confused as to why the two men were so nonchalant about it. He shrugged. They were in L.A. Crowley groaned from where he was still leaning on the steering wheel. 

“What, you’ve finished your Samaritan duties, you can piss off now.” Crowley waved the man away. The man huffed loudly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“That’s bloody rude,” he said, more to himself, as he turned away from the window, heading back to his car. “Pompous fucking Brits,” he muttered, as he slammed the car door shut. 

If someone had been staring at the car, they might have noticed how the dented and scraped wreckage of a car suddenly transformed into a much less scraped and dented version, not a single scratch in sight. The car was shiny – in fact, it was too shiny for a car that was at least a few years old. 

As it was, no one was around beside the angel and demon inside, and the man had long since driven off, having mumbled agitatedly under his breath something along the lines of: “Bloody tourists. Thinking they own the place.” 

The car hummed loudly as it started again, and Aziraphale began detailing to Crowley everything he had missed in the six months he was gone. The awkward silence between them all but dissipated. They could almost act like everything was the same. Like they had spent the past few months in each other's company, dining at the Ritz and enjoying their usual spot at the duck park. Rather than the lonely and uneventful months for Azirphale, left wondering where the demon had end up to. Or the boredom and non-stop torture from Hastur, as Crowley was stuck in hell isolated. 

Crowley listened to the angel's voice intently as he said something about a new restaurant opening, right down the road from his bookshop. He hummed appreciatively, not having comprehended most of the angel's words. 

“They serve exquisite red wine,” he said to Crowley, pausing to take a breath, his glimmering eyes flicking to Crowley’s face. He noted the faint smile ghosting the demon’s face. 

“Mm,” Crowley replied distractedly as he took a sharp right, “we should go sometime.” He smiled at the thought of dining with Aziraphale. It would certainly beat being stuck in the tiny, monotone room in Hell. And- the other stuff. He resisted a shudder at the thought. He had to stay strong. For his angel. 

“Right, we can board the plane to London tomorrow and-” 

“Uhh, mmh, angel. I can’t. I can’t go back to England. Not yet.” 

Aziraphale sucked in a breath quickly. Had he misread Crowley’s intentions? 

“Look, Angel, I sold my soul to be here-” Aziraphale’s eyes widened, “-not literally,” Crowley clarified with a slight smile. “I’ve got a job to do, and if I don’t, well. You know Hell.” Aziraphale nodded numbly before opening his mouth. 

“What do you have to do? Why would you agree to an arrangement with,” Azirphale’s voice quivered, “one of them?” Crowley tucked the comment away into the filing cabinets of his mind. The angel wasn’t wrong about the demons in hell, but the way he said it still emphasized the fact that he was an angel. And Crowley, was a _demon._

“They wouldn’t let me leave otherwise. I wanted so badly to see you Aziraphale, it was just... _difficult.”_ Difficult was an understatement, but Crowley wasn’t going to share that thought with Aziraphale. The angel didn’t need to know what exactly he’d been up to in Hell. 

Crowley steered away from the subject after a brief pause with a comment about how his plants were faring. 

“My dear boy, of course I cared for them.” 

“Now, that’s what I’m scared of. If my plants start experiencing love, they’ll think it's okay if they start ‘acting out’. They _need_ the fear of god, or else, they’ll start getting _ideas.”_

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley’s words as the demon focused on the road. Of course, he thought the demon's methods were a little extreme, but in the back of his mind, he found it quite endearing. 

After about half an hour they pulled up to the detective’s address. Aziraphale felt guilty for talking almost the whole ride, but also knew that Crowley hadn’t wanted to tell him about what happened _down there._ Not yet, at least. Aziraphale hoped that Crowley would open up sooner rather than later, but the angel knew him better than that. He sighed quietly to himself. 

Crowley knocked on the door rapidly, fidgeting and shuffling his feet. Aziraphale only watched him as the door opened to reveal a woman. Aziraphale smiled at her as their eyes met. 

“You didn’t tell me there would be another one of you?” She said, eyeing Aziraphale suspiciously. 

“Oh, he’s just,” Crowley hesitated, “a friend,” he mumbled, his voice getting quiet. “Is it okay if he stays here too?” The woman seemed puzzled for a second, then plastered a smile onto her face. 

“Of course!” she said as she opened the door a little wider, allowing for the angel and the demon to file into the hallway. 

“It’s lovely to meet you. My name is Aziraphale.” He smiled warmly at her, holding out a hand. She shook it gently. 

“Chloe Decker. Are you a friend of Lucifer’s?” 

“I’m afraid not,” he said, frowning slightly. He brightened up as he followed the lady – Chloe – into her house. 

“There’s only one bed in the spare room,” she added as they walked into the lounge. 

“That’s fine,” Crowley assured her. She only smiled at the two of them, watching them with curious eyes at the way the two interacted with each other. _They look so happy together,_ she thought to herself as Crowley leant against the man’s shoulder, resting his face on his chest. She watched the way the man smiled at Crowley, so softly, so gently. Lovingly. 

“Come on, angel,” Crowley mumbled, so soft Chloe almost didn’t catch it in the still air. _Was the other one an angel?_ Quite strange - an angel and a demon – together. And yet they looked so in love and perfectly in tune, it reminded her of – she blushed abashedly at the thought - her and Lucifer. The demons guard seemed to be completely lowered, he was so different from the last time she saw him. She frowned to herself as she also noted how pale and sickly the demon looked, contrasting with his red hair. Did he look like that when they met at the police department? How hadn’t she noticed? 

“Which way to the bedroom?” Crowley asked, and she pointed him toward it, down the hallway. 

“Thank you again for letting us stay here,” Aziraphale added, before waving goodnight. 

Crowley’s eyes were drooping, his feet heavy as he collapsed into the springy mattress in the guest room. Much better than Hell’s accommodations. Shrugging off his jacket subconsciously, he stopped himself from rolling lazily onto his back as he did every night. No, that wouldn’t do now. 

He folded his arms on top of the soft pillow, resting his head on his hands uncomfortably. 

Aziraphale grabbed a book from inside his tartan satchel, before settling into a cushioned seat in the corner of the room. He eyed the demon airily, noting the odd way he was sleeping. He knew that Crowley _never_ slept on his stomach. 

He turned his attention to the book on his lap, feeling almost at peace, something he hadn’t been able to feel since Crowley had vanished at the restaurant. It had always been _unease._

But he still couldn’t concentrate. He gently set the book down, standing to stretch. He knelt gingerly beside the bed, resting his arms on the soft duvet that covered up to the base of Crowley's back, watching as the demon breathed slowly. So slowly. So close he could almost touch him. 

His eyes traced Crowley’s arms and widened when he finally noticed the long, pale scars that ran along Crowley’s arms. Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away. He wished it couldn’t be, wished he was wrong, but some part of him knew that this was what the demon had been up to in Hell. 

Worry curled in his stomach. Crowley had his eyes closed, his face relaxed of any stress. A streak of moonlight flooded in from the open window. He looked so graceful. Aziraphale bit his lip; he didn’t want to disturb Crowley, yet he slowly placed a hand on the demon’s shoulder, shaking gently. 

“Crowley,” he hesitated. Did he really want to drag Crowley back into this? “What’s this, on your arms?”


	6. Bookshop

“What’s this, on your arms?” He lightly traced a finger along the top of Crowley’s arm, barely brushing against the skin. His fingertips softly drifted over one of the pale scars that ran from his shoulder down to his elbow. 

Crowley seemed to stiffen from where he lay on the bed, not turning to look at Aziraphale as the muffled answer “acne” left his mouth, barely audible as he pressed his face against the pillow. The angel pulled his hand away as Crowley removed his arms from underneath his head, still refusing to look Aziraphale in the eye, and drew the heavy duvet over his shoulder. While he hadn’t spoken, the gesture was clear; _leave me alone._

Aziraphale’s frown deepened. Crowley refused to face him. He was determined not to look at the angel hovering beside him on the bed, hoping desperately that Aziraphale would give up and go back to reading – but he knew the angel better than that. He flinched as a graceful hand was placed on his arm; as if he was burned by the angel’s touch. A weight shifted onto the bed as Aziraphale leaned in. 

Aziraphale sat with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, his hand resting on Crowley’s covered shoulder. “Dear,” he began, his voice faltering. It broke his heart that the deep, white scars covering Crowley’s arms were, presumably, only the surface of what he had been through in Hell. Aziraphale had never been too keen about the whole ‘smiting’ business, but he made a mental note to find whatever demon did this to Crowley and make them _pay._

But for now, with Crowley lying there; so small, so weak... He stroked Crowley’s hair gently, so lightly that Crowley couldn’t even be sure he wasn’t imagining it. 

“My dear, please, talk to me.” Crowley simply shifted in the bed. “I can’t help you if you don’t let me know what’s wrong.” He spoke softly and slowly, trying to coax the demon out of his shell. He knew the conversation would be painful for the both of them. 

“Nothing’s wrong, angel. I'm just _tired_.” Crowley almost spat the words. He didn’t need Aziraphale worrying about him now – not when all he wanted was just to sleep. He pressed his eyelids shut, feeling the angel settle into the bed next to him. 

“We don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to.” After a minute of silence and darkness, Crowley shuffled around, careful not to press his back into the sheets. His eyes drooped as he lent his head against the angel’s neck, breathing in softly, taking in the scent of Aziraphale’s new cologne – and the subtle odor of books and cocoa – and he shuffled in closer. He pressed into the angel, as close as possible, reveling in the warmth Aziraphale’s body provided. 

Though the angel wasn’t very used to the concept of sleeping – let alone sleeping next to someone – he felt his breath slow as both him and Crowley slipped off into unconsciousness, curled closely into each other. 

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered open blearily, not yet used to the not-entirely-awake feeling that persisted after a long nap. His body wasn’t well adapted to the process of switching off, so his limbs ached a little and felt strangely stiff as he shifted on the mattress. 

For a while, he just watched the rhythm of Crowley’s chest rising and falling. The early morning sunlight streamed in through the blinds. He moved a strand of crimson hair out of the demon’s face, smiling softly and taking in the demon's peaceful features. His smile faded when his eyes trailed to the multitude of scars that ran along the demon’s arms, disappearing beneath the grey undershirt. He knew there must be more the demon was keeping hidden, but he didn’t want to press too much when it clearly made the demon uncomfortable. 

Worry etched his features as he stared at the demon that he loved so dearly. He knitted his brows together, anxiety bursting from his chest. Crowley had been hurt repeatedly and Aziraphale hadn’t done anything to stop it. Even if he had known, he doubted he could have done much to stop Crowley from suffering _down there._

A desire deep within him ached to continue resting beside Crowley’s sleeping form but he wasn’t sure if he could take it any longer. He raised his legs off the bed, a tingly sensation running up and down his limbs, the absence of Crowley’s body heat next to him causing him to shiver slightly. He carefully tucked the bed sheets around Crowley. For a second, he thought about kissing his forehead, but decided against it. 

He glanced at Crowley one more time before leaving the bedroom. His features were relaxed, and his hair streaked golden as sun beamed through the blinds. He sighed, twisting the doorknob open and making his way towards the kitchen. 

Where Crowley was stretched over the bed; he stirred restlessly in his sleep, a sliver of a frown forming on his face. 

__

_Crowley jolted awake on a brown leather couch, taking in his surroundings and realizing that he was in Aziraphale’s bookshop. He glanced around momentarily, as much as his body would allow. Piles of books flowed off the shelves and covered the carpet. Empty wine glasses were placed on the surface of the table. He must have dozed off on Aziraphale’s couch, but as he tried to recall anything from the night before..._

_Aziraphale stood with his hands clasped together._

_“Angel!” Crowley called, his voice cracking, trying to reach out, but his arms seemed unable to move. His vision swam, each breath burned as he heaved heavily. “Aziraphale, please.” But his voice faded away as Aziraphale shushed him, kneeling beside the couch._

_“You’re okay, it’s all okay now.” The angel ran a hand through Crowley’s hair gently – lovingly._

_He couldn’t help it as his heart raced, beating in his ears; an all-too-painful reminder of his humanity – something demons should not have. Crowley attempted to sit up on the couch; but, like his arms, the rest of his body felt like lead, and any attempt at movement only increased the dull throb that emitted from the stumps emerging from his shoulder blades._

_And he just felt so tired. His head lolled to look at his angel._

_“Crowley, I have to tell you something.” Aziraphale’s voice cut through Crowley’s train of thought as he strained to remember anything. Aziraphale looked at him expectantly, waiting for Crowley to respond. The thought that something was off floated in the back of Crowley’s mind, but he pushed it away._

_“Crowley, focus, please.” He placed a comforting hand on Crowley’s shoulder – Crowley realized his designer jacket was strewn on the couch beside him – and he flinched under Aziraphale’s touch. He felt the grip tighten, making a fresh cut sting. Surely Aziraphale wouldn’t hurt him on purpose._

_The angel was silent for a second, then continued, voice shaky._

_“I love you. Please, Crowley.” Aziraphale sounded so broken. Crowley clenched his eyes shut, breathing heavily through the pain of his wing stumps rubbing against the couch and Aziraphale’s hand on his shoulder. He had always suspected it – hoped it – but this didn’t feel quite right._

_“Do you feel the same way?” Aziraphale asked with pleading eyes._

_He hissed through clenched teeth, “I think you already know the answer to that, angel.” Despite it all, his heart quickened in his chest. He averted his gaze; looking down at his folded arms, where open cuts burned. He remembered the torture far too clearly. And yet he wondered when it had stopped. When had he left Hell? "You're a creature of love after all, right?”_

_“Just tell me. I need to hear it from your mouth.” Crowley couldn’t help it – he turned his head towards Aziraphale, yellow eyes wide._

_“Of course I do,” Crowley spoke softly. The angel’s expression darkened, morphing into something of pure disgust. The angel tutted tauntingly._

_“You know Beelzebub won’t be happy about this.” Crowley flinched as the pleasant and comforting shape of Aziraphale – the cream jacket, blond curly hair and all – transformed into the scowling, rotting skin and flesh, and black eyes of Hastur._

_His stomach twisted into a knot. He had just admitted to Hastur – the Duke of Hell – that he had fallen in love with an angel._

_“I didn’t think it would be that easy to fool you, Crowley.” Mockingly, Hastur moved from the place where Aziraphale had once stood. Fear twisted in his stomach – he tried not to let it show, but he was sure Hastur could see right through him at this point._

_Hastur grinned maliciously at Crowley, his breath hot against Crowley’s neck as he leaned in closer. “I thought you were smarter than that. Did you honestly think an angel could love something as grotesque as you?” he chuckled lowly, his black eyes taking in Crowley’s fearful form. “A demon in love with an angel.” He lifted Crowley’s chin so they were face to face. Crowley stared into the inky black irises of Hastur’s eyes, fear twisting in his gut like a snake._

_“For Hell’s sake – I suppose I’ll just have to punish you for it.”_

__

Aziraphale shuffled cheerfully into the kitchen, leaving Crowley to slumber in the bedroom. His hair was messy after sleeping on it – which was another aspect of sleeping he didn’t enjoy – but seeing the demon curled up so at peace was well worth the messy appearance. He clicked his fingers, strands of hair curling into their usual position. A kettle steamed on the counter as water boiled. Chloe leaned against the bench, glancing up when he entered. 

“Did you and your partner sleep well?” Chloe smiled at him brightly. The water splashed as she poured it into a mug, the scent of instant coffee wafting in the air. 

“My partner? What do you– oh you mean Crowley? Yes, he and I, uh, slept wonderfully,” Aziraphale replied, missing any romantic implication in Chloe’s tone. 

Bringing the cup to her mouth, she took a sip, the warm liquid doing its job to wake her up a bit. She wiped the sleep out of her eyes, resisting the urge to yawn as she continued. “So, how long have you two been together?” 

“6000 years, on and off, you know how it is.” Aziraphale waved a hand around thoughtlessly. His mind returned to Crowley; he itched to go check in on him again but no, he shouldn’t. He didn’t want to disturb the sleeping demon. 

He and Chloe continued chatting for a while; about the bookshop, about the police department, and whatever else came into conversation. He found that he quite enjoyed her company, wiling the morning away as he waited for Crowley to stir from his nap. 

Her keys jangled as she made for the door, having to leave for work. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reached inside her handbag and handed him a package. 

“Oh my, what’s this?” He examined the package in his hands. 

“It's for Lucifer, that’s why your partner's here. He’s supposed to deliver it for me.” Aziraphale wondered if that was what Crowley had meant last night when he said he had ‘sold his soul’ to be here. 

“Jolly good, then. I’ll make sure he gets the package.” He smiled at her, the smile quickly dropping as she disappeared out the doorway. He heard a car door shut, and the hum of her car as it rumbled out of the driveway. 

Aziraphale stared at the package intently. When she said Lucifer, she couldn’t have meant the _Devil himself_ , could she? 

He frowned, looking at the name marked on the package in black ink. 

_Lucifer Morningstar._

The Devil. The same monstrous beast that had towered over Crowley and him the day of Not-Armageddon. And the same demon that had – he wasn’t sure how – created the anti-Christ. 

And Crowley had made a deal with him. 

Thoughts whirred around in his mind, forming and dissipating as quickly as they’d appeared. Had Lucifer been the one to hurt Crowley? Does that mean Crowley has to leave Earth again and return to Hell? No, Aziraphale thought to himself. He simply wouldn’t allow that. There's no way he’s letting Crowley do that, he– 

He nearly dropped the package at the sound of a yelp coming from inside the bedroom. 

“Crowley!” he yelled down the hallway cautiously, gripping the package in his hands as he began to walk towards the guest room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll sorry this chapter mostly filler and also?? Ended this in a really weird place but I wanted to post a chapter because I haven't for a while :"( Next chapter will very angsty I promise


	7. The Package

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> good time havin'

“My dear, are you alright?” 

The door was still slightly ajar from when he had left; and as he slowly pushed it open, he heard another cry. 

“Crowley?” He edged to the side of the bed where Crowley was thrashing about, sheets twisting around his limbs as he struggled, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Aziraphale placed the package on the dresser and put a gentle hand on the demon’s shoulder, shaking it, and yellow eyes snapped wide open. He frowned as Crowley’s breathing didn’t slow. 

Aziraphale tried to be calming – he really did – but his presence only seemed to be worsening Crowley’s panicked state. 

“It's okay, dear.” The terrified demon didn’t move from the bed, but Crowley’s expression turned icy as he put his guard up. He slapped Aziraphale’s hand away. 

“My dear, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale cradled his hand as if he had been burned. He tried to not let Crowley’s rejection hurt him – the demon was just stressed, that had to be it. But when Aziraphale looked at Crowley he was startled to find a look of pure hatred on his face. 

“Nice one Hassstur, but that won’t work on me again,” he hissed, sitting up in bed and folding his arms protectively over his chest. His eyes blazed with a fury Aziraphale had only seen when the Armageddon was coming to an end and they had been standing there, him and the antichrist, hand in hand. 

“Crowley, it’s me–” 

“Oh, don’t act ssso innocent with me,” Crowley said. Anger edged his words, but his voice shook with fear, and Aziraphale recognized the familiar nervous lisp that would emerge when he was pissed drunk, nervous, or terrified. 

“Crowley, are you okay?” Aziraphale took a step backwards at the animosity in Crowley’s tone. The demon's tongue flicked out and ran over his top lip – if the atmosphere was any different, Aziraphale would have laughed. _Like a snake._ As it was, he was too concerned by the rush of anger from his best friend, directed at – Aziraphale’s mind spun at the thought – him. 

“I can’t believe I thought for a ssecond I had really escaped this hell pit,” Crowley spat at Aziraphale. “You really fooled me thiss time,” he hissed, throwing his arms up, “you really did. Clever.” 

He squinted at the angel, suspicion radiating from his yellow eyes. Aziraphale’s heart did things; if he had time to think about it for a moment, he would have realized it was thumping like crazy, and the fear racing through his heart was not for himself, but for Crowley. As it was, he could only stare in shock. 

“I don’t know what you mean, dear I–” Aziraphale’s voice cracked. His legs felt stuck to the floor where he had taken a few steps back, he hovered in the doorway tentatively. 

“Oh, drop the rouse,” Crowley snarled, and after Aziraphale didn’t say anything, he spat, “well? Cat got your tongue?” Crowley grinned, seeming almost unhinged, as he leapt out of the bed and hissed; “or should I sssay ssnake?” Aziraphale didn’t reply, any words caught in his throat. He didn’t understand. 

Hastur. Crowley had called him Hastur. Wasn’t he that _demon_ Crowley had ranted about one time while they were getting drunk at the bookshop? The one with the toad on his head? 

_“He doesn’t get it, Hastur, you know?”_ Crowley had told him, motioning a hand mindlessly as if swatting away invisible flies, _“Spends years tempting a single priest, yet doesn't appreciate the effort I go into, like, you know, tying up the phone lines; millions of people stuck taking their anger out on each other. None of the demons down there really get it. Idiots, the lot of them.”_

The silence in the air buzzed. _Why would Crowley think he was Hastur?_

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably; unsure of how to react, he simply motioned to the package that Crowley was – supposedly – delivering to _Lucifer._

“Chloe wanted you to deliver,” he paused, unsure of himself, “this, uh, package.” Crowley’s face changed instantly. His eyebrows raised – his expression echoed that of someone who was extremely doubtful – then fell in confusion, and then his face shifted to utter embarrassment. 

He stared at the angel, _his angel,_ who had just witnessed his breakdown. He shook a little, looking down at his hands. He couldn’t mess up more, could he? How could he be so utterly stupid? He looked up to Aziraphale, who was standing numbly in the doorway. 

Crowley stumbled forward, wrapping his arms around the angel. 

“’m sorry,” he whispered. “Thought you were someone else.” 

“Crowley, my dear, are you ok? What _was_ that–” 

“’ss not important. Angel.” Crowley expression turned stony, even though tears pricked his eyes. He turned his face away, holding himself tightly. 

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s cheeks in his hands gently. “Of course it’s important, if it's hurting you, my dear. _I love_ –” he stopped himself, breathing in sharply, “I care for you so much, Crowley. Please, just–” Aziraphale’s voice cracked, and with it; Crowley broke. Any wall, any barrier, split wide open and the feelings behind them spilled through like a dam full of water. His heart fluttered in his chest. Aziraphale had said that he loved– _cared for him._ And unlike the situation with Hastur in hell, in the fake bookshop– 

The words rang clear throughout Crowley’s mind: _“I love you. Please, Crowley. Do you feel the same way?”_ It felt wrong then. But now? 

“I love you too. You know I do, angel.” 

It felt more than right. 

He stared lovingly at Aziraphale, as the angel brushed tears away from his cheek. They embraced, and it wasn’t how or where he had imagined it – maybe at the Ritz, or at Aziraphale’s bookshop, or at St James’s Park; certainty not stuck in L.A. – but it felt _right_ this time. This was undoubtedly the angel he loved. 

Crowley’s eyes flitted to Aziraphale’s lips. Would it be right to– 

Aziraphale had thought about kissing the demon too much to hesitate for too long – an opportunity like this would likely not arise again. He rested a hand gently, lovingly, on the side of Crowley’s face, just under his jaw, and pressed their lips together. The room felt alive with energy. 

Aziraphale had seen plenty of humans do it. It hadn’t seemed too hard at the time. He had even _experimented_ a few times here and there during the centuries. And he had gotten up to _quite_ a lot in the discreet gentleman’s club – where he learned the gavotte – though it had never felt like this before. 

This felt right. 

Crowley didn’t move his lips at first – it appeared he was in shock. Eventually, something in the farthest crevice of his mind screamed _Kiss back idiot!_ and he suddenly remembered: Kissing back was something he was supposed to do. 

They fell into an easy rhythm – it was messy, but as he gripped Aziraphale’s beige jacket tightly and pressed his body against Aziraphale’s warm and comforting frame. He realized he had fallen into a pit. There was no going back – and he smiled as he confirmed with himself that he didn’t _want_ to go back. They were on their own side. Together. 

Eventually, Crowley pulled away, his heart thumping in his chest. They both panted. He desperately wanted to continue, but he reminded himself that Lucifer must be getting antsy in Hell. 

He could tell Aziraphale all about it all later. The torture, his wings, the things that happened down in Hell that he couldn’t bear to think about; the fake moment he had had in the fake bookshop with the fake angel. _His_ angel was owed an explanation, but he was afraid his time was running short before he had to return to hell, he had a delivery to make after all. 

“You said something about a package?” He asked breathlessly. Aziraphale, flustered, for a second didn’t comprehend what the demon had said. 

Aziraphale itched to continue kissing the demon he had loved for millennia. He had always known he had loved the demon, yet he had been too afraid to admit to himself until sometime during the not-end-of-the-world-as-you-know-it. He was relieved it was finally out in the open. 

He paused before blubbering; “Oh. Oh, of course. Yes.” He gestured vaguely behind himself at the package on top of the dresser. 

“That was...” Aziraphale began, pausing again. His face radiated with happiness as he gazed into Crowley’s wide yellow eyes. 

Aziraphale had often wondered at times what would happen if an angel and a demon – _he and Crowley_ – were to kiss. Maybe their tangible bodies wouldn’t be able to handle all that divine energy smashing together in such a way they were never designed to; or their souls wouldn’t be able to handle it and they would cease to exist forever – as if holy water and hellfire had been thrown together over them with a magnificent _boom!_

As it turned out, it had been more wonderful than anything he could have imagined. He was quite relieved that there were no explosions, but it felt like there had been anyway as his heart pace quickened to a pace that wasn’t humanly possible. A ripple of energy – of _Crowley_ – shimmered all throughout his being. Even if there were to have been an explosion, Aziraphale had no doubt in his mind it would have been well worth it. 

He had wanted to kiss the demon for so long. And do other silly human activities like holding hands and cuddling – and other things he didn’t allow his mind to go to now. He sighed, in a way that would have sounded to any ears listening, absolutely infatuated with – his heart did all sorts of thing again, except this time he was certain it was love – Crowley. His lover. Was that what they were now? Lovers? It felt right. It felt– 

“...Wonderful.” He finished. 

Crowley grinned a sly smile and leant in. Their kiss deepened as they interlocked their hands. 

Deep down in Hell; Lucifer was waiting for a package, tapping his foot impatiently as he signed document after document of mundane paperwork. _Who would have thought Hell would have so much paperwork?_

And – though they weren’t aware of it at that moment – as Crowley and Aziraphale made out in the guest bedroom of Chloe’s apartment, the forces of Heaven were stirring; and nothing good was to come of it.


	8. Speak of the Devil

“I need to go,” Crowley breathed, breaking apart from the kiss with a sigh. “Duty calls. Care to walk with me?” Aziraphale nodded with a soft smile. They walked, hand in hand, out of Chloe’s apartment. 

“Any idea where we’re going?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley shrugged nonchalantly; his coat jacket crinkled slightly. 

“There’s a back entrance to Hell, one that’s been disused for years. Not many people know about it - certainly not Hastur.” 

Aziraphale frowned. There was that name again. 

“Must you go?” Aziraphale pleaded, his grip tightening around Crowley’s cold hand. 

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand – though the tips of his fingers lingered, brushing Crowley’s skin lightly, for as long as they could – as they arrived at the wet and damp destination of a random back alley in L.A. Crowley hesitated, the world dark under his tinted shades, tired eyes scanning the dank alleyway – it used to be the most commonly used entrance to hell until the mid-1900’s, when it had gone out of service due to the growing crowd in the streets around it. The pungent smell of piss and weed lingered in the alley despite no human having entered it in the last decade. Crowley scrunched his nose in distaste. Despite it, he preferred it to the smell of sulfur that permeated Hell and the ashy taste that lingered in his mouth for a long time afterward. 

Aziraphale watched Crowley disappear down the alleyway with a sad smile. The moment had seemed so perfect – they had kissed! Made out, even! But, as Crowley had said, duty calls. Aziraphale stood outside the alleyway and raised his hands to his mouth, still feeling the ghost of Crowley’s lips on his. He felt his face flush a deep red, and straightened his jacket, not wanting to take any more time lingering around the alleyway as he walked briskly back to Chloe’s apartment. Crowley would be back soon, and he didn’t have time to waste standing around a shifty alley that served as a secret entrance to Hell. 

He entered the apartment – with the help of a small miracle to unlock the door, as Chloe hadn’t given him a key – and sat down on the couch with a sigh, resting his chin on his hands. His mind filled with questions; when would Crowley be getting back? What was he delivering? And did Chloe, by chance, have any cocoa in her cupboards? 

Just as he was about to head toward the kitchen, his senses were filled with a blinding white light. He shielded his eyes as a familiar figure emerged from the heavenly glow and stepped into the room. 

“Aziraphale, principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” came the deep, always slightly patronizing, voice. 

“Yes?” Aziraphale muttered, keeping his eyes low as the blinding, white light faded. 

Gabriel grabbed a tacky vase from the stout coffee table, face twisting in distaste. “Don’t like what you’ve done with the place. Very,” he paused, searching for the word, “ _domestic_.” Aziraphale's frown deepened. 

“Just staying at a friend’s place, for the moment.” Gabriel grimaced but didn’t say anything else about the decor. “Let’s just get straight to the point. You and the demon Crowley,” Gabriel said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Anything to say about your relationship with him?” 

Aziraphale blinked slowly, trying to think of an adequate excuse. 

“What?” he said, for lack of anything better to say. Gabriel tutted, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

“Aziraphale, you can’t have thought we’d _really_ just leave you be after that little hellfire incident? I knew you were dull,” he paused as Aziraphale flinched, seemingly enjoying the awkwardness that his face gave away, “but I thought you’d at least be smart enough to know that after a little stunt like that, we couldn’t just,” he gestured widely with his hands. “Leave you unsupervised.” 

“Well I assumed that–” 

Gabriel let out an agitated sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. Gabriel didn't have a headache, nor was it entirely _necessary_ to rub his temples, he just thought the action conveyed the right amount of exasperation. “It’s a miracle you haven’t Fallen yet, what with your,” he raised a brow, his violet eyes meeting Aziraphale’s; “ _fraternizing_ with the enemy, as you do.” 

“I do what I must do,” Aziraphale uttered weakly, earning another heavy sigh from Gabriel. “To, ah, blend in on Earth and keep an eye on the other side–” His sentence was cut short by a smug smile as Gabriel held up a finger, shushing him loudly. 

“I know about the ‘body swap,’ _Aziraphale_.” Gabriel face scrunched as if he was tasting something bitter for the first time. The archangel circled Aziraphale like a predator would his prey – pausing directly out of his line of sight. 

“You know a war will come, we all do; and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.” 

Aziraphale didn’t even dare to move his head to look at the archangel. He gulped; his throat suddenly dry. 

“You were the perfect angel,” Gabriel breathed, leaning in behind him and putting a hand on Aziraphale’s neck. “Well, what I mean to say is; though you were a rather lazy angel, at least you weren’t _this_ much of an embarrassment.” 

Aziraphale held his breath, waiting for Gabriel to continue. 

“But then that _demon_ , well, he _tainted you_.” He spat the words. Aziraphale shivered as the archangel ran a thumb along his shoulder, his fingertips digging into the skin. “The fallen angel, the _demon_ Crowley. Don’t worry about him, though. We’ll deal with him in time in due time. No, I want to focus on _you_.” 

“Gabriel, please, you don’t have to–” Gabriel shushed him, his cold fingers trailing along the side of Aziraphale’s face. 

“Shh, you’ll be the perfect angel yet,” he said, and as Aziraphale realized the fate that awaited him, Gabriel pressed his forefinger to Aziraphale’s temple. Gently. Lovingly– Aziraphale grabbed his wrist, feeling tears form in his eyes. He already knew where the archangel was going with this. How could Gabriel claim this too – justifying it with the excuse of some ‘heavenly goodness’? How could God stand by and let this happen? 

Him and Crowley. On their own side. All of that would be erased. 

Everything that had made Aziraphale, well, _Aziraphale_. His bookshop, the hot cocoa, his love of sushi, dining at the Ritz, the 6,000 years spent on Earth, with Crowley: Erased. 

All of it slipped away and left behind was the empty shell of an angel – the perfect mold. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. Aziraphale smiled pleasantly, despite being unsure as to why he was smiling and where _exactly_ he was. 

Gabriel turned him around by the shoulders, positioning him so that he could look down at the angel’s face. He smiled at the principality, as he ran a hand through his fluffy white hair. 

“Where am I?” 

“Oh, right, my bad.” Gabriel smiled something so almost genuine. “Here.” He snapped his fingers and Aziraphale’s entire world shifted into a much more recognizable room. His stomach lurched, blood pounding in his ears. He leaned against the nearest surface – a pile of books – and breathed in deeply. “That’s better, isn’t it?” 

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” 

It was a bookshop – his bookshop? He recognized the place, as if from a distant dream, and though it didn’t seem to have any significant value to him, it was a good disguise to blend in with the humans. 

“How much do you remember?” Gabriel asked, returning his hands to his sides. Aziraphale’s, slightly confused, blue eyes searched Gabriel’s; for what, neither of them was sure. 

“My name is Aziraphale, and I am the guardian of the Eastern Gate.” Gabriel nodded slowly. 

“You were the guardian of the Eastern Gate,” Gabriel corrected, “you’re Heaven’s full-time field agent on Earth now.” Aziraphale nodded. It’s not as if he didn’t remember leaving the garden of Eden – it’s just that everything felt distinctly blurry after that. He strained his memory. All that happened was that his temple started throbbing, a pressure forming behind his eyes. 

“Good. Well,” Gabriel said with a heavy sigh, “I’d best be off. I _will_ be back to check up on you,” he reminded the vacant angel. There was silence for a few seconds as Gabriel prepared to leave. 

“If you don’t mind me asking; what are my duties on Earth? I can’t seem to remember what...” 

“I do mind. But that’s ok, I almost forgot. Your duties are,” he paused for dramatic effect, “to eliminate the demon Crowley.” 

Aziraphale felt a tinge of familiarity at the name. He ignored it. 

“Oh, right. Who’s that?” 

“He’s the only field agent on Earth from _down there_. But I do recommend you make quick business of it. And here,” he pulled a dagger into existence. It glimmered in the faint lamplight. On the blade were deep purple runes, swirling and radiating an unearthly glow. “A weapon to do that.” 

“Oh, ok then. Jolly good,” Aziraphale said, a smile forming that didn’t feel entirely genuine, as he took the blade from Gabriel’s open palm. He wasn’t sure where he’d exactly learnt the phrase, but it felt right deep in his soul. 

“So, don’t get up to any funny business!” Gabriel smiled emptily and disappeared in a flash of heavenly light, leaving the angel to stand vacantly in the living room, trying to remember anything beyond his name and his bookshop. 

//// 

Crowley swaggered through Hell as inconspicuously as he could, desperately trying to remember the route back to Lucifer’s office. He cursed himself for not memorizing the path as he rounded a corner, absently brushing shoulders with a demon. He _had_ been injured at the time, and delirious from the pain, but he should’ve been more aware. He’s a demon for Hell’s sake. 

He grounded his teeth together as the demon looked up at him suspiciously, giving him a pained smile. The demon didn’t smile back (he was a demon; it’d be a funny odd world if demons went around _smiling_ politely). The demon instead continued walking hastily up the hallway and disappeared around a corner. 

After what felt like an eternity of walking, he found it; the mahogany door with the frosted glass window, little card reading “Lord of Hell” standing out as the only polished silver thing in the whole of the corridor, and perhaps all of Hell. He knocked gently, afraid to open the door. 

“Enter!” A voice called from within. Crowley opened the door slowly, holding the package loosely in his hands as he stood silhouetted in the doorway. “About time,” the devil said, his elbows leaning on his desk. Lucifer looked up from a stack of paperwork, caressing his forehead tiredly. 

Crowley held out the package, which Lucifer snatched from his grasp. As the lord of Hell tore into the brown paper packaging, Crowley shifted on the spot, watching the man’s eyes flick across the lines of scrawled, messy handwriting. Lucifer seemed absorbed in each word. His gaze, if it was possible (which Crowley didn’t doubt was, in fact, possible), could have burned two holes into the paper. 

Crowley cleared his throat, Lucifer’s head snapping to where the demon shifted uncomfortably. Lucifer raised an eyebrow as if to say; well, get on with it already. 

“Listen,” Crowley, still absolutely terrified of the devil sitting before him, began tentatively. “Beelzebub, sort of, took my powers away.” Lucifer’s eyes flitted up to meet his expectantly, hand resting under his chin. Crowley took another deep breath, wondering why the lines he had practiced in his head seemed so hard to repeat now in this stuffy office. He didn’t even understand why he was so afraid. Of what? The Devil? 

“Ssso, I was wondering if you could... Give them back.” He mumbled the last few words, and he wasn’t sure if Lucifer had understood him. The slow, slow ticking of the clock that hung just above the door interrupted the tense silence that followed. 

, Of course, he was foolish to ask. What had he expected? For the devil to show a lowly demon like him mercy? For him to say; yes of course! and give it back to him just like that. He resisted the urge to groan. How could he be so, so idiotic- 

“What?” Lucifer’s brown eyes blinked slowly at him, resting his hand on his chin. Crowley was startled at the realization that he looked... exhausted. 

“What?” Crowley echoed, somewhat defensively. 

“I didn’t hear that, could you repeat it?” Lucifer cocked another eyebrow at him. 

“Could you,” he took a deep breath in, “give me my powersss back.” He cursed internally at the nervous, habitual hiss forcing its way into his words. If he were a human, or prone to blushing, he was sure he would be all red with embarrassment. 

Lucifer said nothing, and instead, fiddled with the brown package sitting on his desk. 

Crowley didn’t want to test the waters. He should just keep his stupid mouth shut and get on with it. He wasn’t stupid enough to ask again, so he switched to a different question that had been at the back of his mind ever since he learned that Lucifer cared for a human, so much so that he had employed a certain damned messenger boy. 

“Why did you let the apocalypse happen,” he paused, “if you care so deeply for the detective?” He leaned forward on the desk, resting slightly on the cool wood. 

The atmosphere in the room darkened as soon as the words left his mouth. Lucifer growled lowly. Crowley flinched, tearing his eyes away from the devil to stare at the clock at the wall. The time was all wrong, all messed up. 

“What?” This time, Crowley could feel the anger thickly lacing the word. He took a step back from the mahogany desk – his survival instincts kicking in a few moments too late. 

The chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as it was pushed back. Lucifer stood at his full height, towering over him menacingly. His eyes glinted red in the cold lighting of the office. 

“Do you think a _mere_ child could defeat me? King of Hell? No, of course not. I had just as much as you at stake.” 

Crowley’s hands shook a little as he instinctively backed up against the wall, the urge to run out into the hallway and return to Earth far too strong. 

Lucifer sighed. He wanted to leave Hell so badly. More importantly, he wanted to see his damn detective again. He sat back in his chair, defeated. His eyes returned his gaze to the framed photograph he had yet to pull out of the package entirely. It had felt too private. Too personal with Crowley still here in this cursed office. 

“Come back later when I’ve finished my letter.” He waved the demon away, resisting the urge to yawn and sink into his chair. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He snapped his fingers together, restoring the demon's powers to him. 

Crowley nodded, throwing a simple “ciao,” over his shoulders before slinking out of the door. 

Lucifer’s features softened as he carefully extracted the picture frame, his heart warming at the smiling face of Chloe, her arm wrapped around him and Trixie. He resisted the urge to cradle the picture frame to his chest – well, there was no else but him in his office. He only wished he had appreciated the detective's presence more. He tucked the picture frame into his draw. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t his most cherished possession. 

Crowley kept his head down, lowering his gaze as other demons passed by in the hallway. Maybe the devil wasn’t as bad as everyone thought he was. He certainty wasn’t worse than Hastur or Beezlebub. He hoped dearly, that he wouldn’t run into the two of them while he was stuck in Hell. 

“Crowley!” Crowley’s shoulders shrunk into his torso. He resisted the urge to scream in frustration. Of course, only he would be so unlucky. It could be worse, he thought to himself, as he heard the familiar buzzing sound and his eyes met Beelzebub’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao sorry for not uploading in a while. Hope you enjoyed this chapter even tho it was pretty evil


	9. Alleyway To Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOrry for the long as hiatus but I'm back now :) hopefully you enjoy the new chapter bbvbvbvvb

“Beelzebub,” Crowley breathed in sharply, “long time no see.” Beelzebub offered a tight-lipped smile, but their eyes betrayed a swirling vortex of anger brewing underneath. They stared unblinkingly at Crowley, mouth twisted in a frown. Crowley blinked slowly. He was so _screwed_. His mind raced as he tried to think of any way to get out of this.

“Er, how long has it been? A few months? Not long enough if you ask me.” He patted their shoulder enthusiastically. Beelzebub brushed the spot he had touched, looking at him as if he was the lord of filth, and not the other way around.  
Each second that ticked by, Beelzebub seemed to get more and more agitated. He was sure steam would come out of their ears like a kettle. Or, alternatively, a swarm of flies. “Hmmm, well - let me tempt you to a nice coffee break. I’m sure it's been eons since you’ve had a nice time away from all this hellhole.” He gestured around to the bland, dimly lit hallway.

Crowley whipped his head around, searching the hallway for any possible exits. Maybe he should go back to the devil’s office. It was certainly better than being here with the god of filth, prince of Hell, lord of dung – the one and only; Beelzebub. Crowley’s eyes flitted back to the demon. One of the two demons in Hell he’d been desperately hoping to avoid.

He could get Lucifer to vouch for him – surely someone of such high status could convince Beelzebub to let him go but... Lucifer had been very specific about keeping his _special job_ as a messenger boy on the downlow.

“Enough games, Crowley. You can’t talk your way out of this one.” They narrowed their eyes in suspicion. If Beelzebub was annoyed before, they were absolutely fuming now. “You're supposed to be with Hastur, as punishment for preventing the apocalypse and disobeying direct orders. Remember?” Beelzebub barked, a slight buzzing sound catching in the back of their throat. “He never informed me that you were mizzzing... I better have a word with him. But, for now, I’ll deal with you.”

Crowley gave an exaggerated shrug. “Yes well, Hastur already gave me the punishment of a lifetime.” The statement was partly true despite the sarcasm that laced his words. Hastur _had_ taken away his wings. But - he wasn’t sure if it had hurt more than being cast out of heaven, or the pain he would experience if something bad were to happen to Aziraphale. Crowley resisted the urge to feel along his spine - where he knew the skin where his wing had been would still be raw.

“It was fun and all,” Crowley leaned further into Beelzebub's frame - so they could see his yellow eyes beneath his dark shades. “And don’t tell Hastur this - you know, in case it hurts his feelings - but the torture was really lacking in a certain luster.”

Beelzebub frown twisted into a smirk. Crowley smug expression faltered, startled by Beezlebub’s sudden change in demeanor. “Iszzz that so Crowley? Then would you be happy to turn around and show me your wingzz?”

He flinched slightly, his eyes widening beneath his Valentino glasses. He supposed Hastur must have been updating Beezlebub on his progress. Fantastic.

“Well, that’s great and all. But I better get going. I’m a busy demon after all and I’ve got places to be.”

“What-” Beezlebub started. There was no way Crowley could just make a break for it in this hallway. That would be ludicrous. How stupid could the demon possibly be?

Crowley snapped his fingers. The hallway disappeared, replaced with another hallway in another part of hell. He sighed, his eternal panic dissipating slightly. He ought to more be careful if he doesn’t want to run into Beezlebub, _or Hastur_ , ever again.

 _You can’t avoid them forever_ , hissed a voice in his head. He shook the thought out of his mind. A predicament, for another time. Preferably, he would think about it when he was out of Hell and whiling the hours away on Aziraphale’s couch - sipping expensive wine, listening to the angel rant about old books, sleeping comfortably on the couch while Aziraphale read. Maybe he could even ask the angel for advice. Probably not. He didn’t like the idea of burdening Aziraphale with any of his problems, but, it was a nice thought.

Beelzebub stared at the reflective surface where two snakeskin shoes had been positioned just a moment before. Tearing their eyes away from the floor, they wondered angrily how Crowley had managed to regain his demonic powers - the only person with the power to do that, well, besides themself, was the Devil. Their frown deepened as they looked at the frosted window – the entrance to the Lord of Darkness’ office – and realized that must have been where Crowley had come from.

Something was off about the whole situation. Whatever reason Crowley had been meeting with the devil for, and, why the devil would allow him to, let alone give him his powers back... Beezlebub growled under their breath, sounding more like a low buzz in the empty hallway - before they turned sharply away from the office door and back the way they had come.

Aziraphale zoned out. He had been doing that a lot lately – zoning out. His mind would blank, and he would simply stand stiffly, staring outside the window of the bookshop. Eventually, he would snap out of it. Blinking slowly, he’d wonder how the sky had turned dusk when he’d been looking at a baby blue sky just moments before. He would shake his head and return to his permanent confusion on what he should be doing.

What did he usually do when he had nothing else to preoccupy himself with? There was no sign of the agent from Hell Gabriel had mentioned. And besides, he performed miracle after miracle, and he still had _so much_ free time.

He lifted a book off a pile scattered on the floor. His eyes traced the blurb. A spark of interest, and it was gone. The book clattered to the floor pathetically, causing dust motes to stir in the air. He had the strange feeling, one that grew stronger and stronger the longer he thought about it; _something was missing._

He startled when he felt a spike of demonic energy. It was undeniable. This was the Earth agent from _down there_ Gabriel had referred to. This was it. He summoned the blade with the glowing runes, one that could kill the vile thing. He concentrated on where the energy felt strongest - L.A. - and the world made a slight whooshing sound as his bookshop melted away.

Aziraphale staggered a little, taking a moment to adjust to his surroundings. He noticed he was in an alley. A dank one – one that smelt particularly unpleasant. Rain pelted down heavily from the sky, drenching his light blond curls and beige coat. An inky darkness coated the graffitied brick walls and wilted weeds. The sun had set behind the building long ago. Though Aziraphale doubted the place ever got much sun, the lack of daylight certainly wasn’t helping the visibility of the place.

Blinking, his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the darkness. Not a moment too late as a figure immerged from wherever the alley lead into. Presumably Hell. Aziraphale shrugged slightly to himself. Where else would a demon be emerging from? Definitely Hell, then. He tightened his grip on the blade, hiding it behind his back. Right this - this was it. He didn’t want to this mess up. Lest he face the wrath of Gabriel.

The demon turned around and a malicious grin formed on their face. They lifted their shades slightly so Aziraphale could see the yellow glint of their eyes, _as if to mock him._ The foul demon raised a hand. Aziraphale tensed. He didn’t know what this demon was capable of. He ought to be careful. Rain flooded the alleyway, rushing through the gutter and into a drain. The unpleasant odor, sadly, didn’t get washed away with it – in fact, it seemed to grow more defined. He supposed Hell had made it that way so no human would wander too far.

“Aziraphale? Is that you? Kind of you to wait out but entirely not necessary I assure you.”

He wondered briefly how the demon knew his name. He supposed it didn’t matter. The demon was good – he couldn’t see an etch of doubt or fear in his posture. He must be powerful to not even blink an eye at him. Or maybe a little bit too cocky. Aziraphale’s body tensed. He didn’t break eye contact with the demon. To his surprise, the demon had quite a unique fashion session. Aziraphale was even more shocked to find he didn’t entirely hate it, to say the least.

“Did you at least bring an umbrella? It’s pouring!” The demon placed a hand above his eyes. Shielding himself from the rain, and his sins, Aziraphale assumed. Why would the demon suggest bringing an umbrella to a knife fight? Did the demon think he was stupid?

Aziraphale looked up at the sky, which was a river of dark, grey clouds. This demon was a sly thing. Confusing him - a good strategy. He gave his politest smile, though he was sure it was a bit forced.

“I’m afraid I didn’t bring an umbrella.” He slipped on his biggest ‘game face’. The demon – Crowley, he was pretty sure – looked taken aback. Though it was from his comment or his expression, Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

He studied the demon, narrowing his eyes. The demonic footsteps echoed across the brick walls. The silence grew heavier, only disturbed by the pattering of rain and the roar of thunder.

“That’s ok. I’ll just, you know, miracle one into existence.” Crowley strolled up to him. On the horizon, there was a lightning strike. The entire alley lit up – light bouncing off the damp walls - before it was dark again. The umbrella expanded and the demon lifted it above their heads. Water dripped off the black canvas material as the demon shielded them from the rain. Why did this feel so familiar?

_That one went down like a lead balloon_

“Aziraphale?” The demon – and Aziraphale surely must be imagining this – but the demon’s expression seemed to fall. _False_ worry lined his face. “Is something wrong?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. Why was he acting so friendly? They hadn’t met. Not once in a millennia. And besides that, they were from opposite sides.

“Angel.” The demon Crowley whispered in a tone softer, gentler, than Aziraphale thought a demon could possess. They were inches away now.

 _Hurry up and do it!_ A voice screamed. It sounded suspiciously like Gabriel’s. He hesitated, because, well it wasn’t really in his nature, was it? Stabbing someone – that was more of a demon’s style. He looked into the eyes of the demon. What was he playing at? He must be waiting for his guard to lower so the demon could attack him. Right. Made sense. But the whole umbrella tactic seemed over the top.

He flinched as the demon lifted a hand to Aziraphale’s face, backing slightly away from the outstretched arm. The demon’s fingers –so light he could barely feel them – brushed against his cheek. He was surprised to find them well-manicured. You would think they’d be pointier. He was a demon after all. The demon waited. For what, Aziraphale wasn’t sure.

The demon never broke eye contact with him. Which was good because, otherwise - he might have noticed the glint of the knife reflecting the streetlamp at the entrance of the alley, and maybe he wouldn’t have looked so shocked when the faintly glowing blade penetrated his chest.

The demon staggered, clutching a hand to his torso where crimson leaked out. His dark shades slipped off his face, the glass shattering as it landed on the wet ground. The umbrella slipped out of the demon’s fingers and landed on the ground beside the shattered glasses. The demon leant against the brick wall, panting heavily, a look of betrayal dawning his face.

“Aziraphale.” The demon choked out. Aziraphale only saw hurt in his features, before they were quickly replaced with rage.

“I should have known it was you, Hassstur!” Crowley spat. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony. Aziraphale could hear the slight hiss of burning flesh. Angelic metal against demonic being – always a bit of a painful combination.

Aziraphale heart ached. _This didn’t feel right._ His hands shook, and the knife clattered to the ground beside the demon’s glasses.

“If you did anything to him...” The demon gasped heavily. Aziraphale’s eyes trailed to the dark patch blossoming on his shirt.

“I swear I'll kill you... I’ll-” The demon spewed, his words growing weaker and more incoherent.

Aziraphale weakly fell to the floor with the demon. He felt tears brim his eyes. It was just a demon, and yet something about him... He shouldn’t feel pity for him but, the way the demon struggled and writhed, it reminded him painfully of a wounded animal.

The demon laughed. There was no other word to describe the sound rather than, well, demonic. Crazed. He wasn’t even looking at him anymore as his eyes seemed to glaze over.

“Your energy felt so much like him... I-” The demon continued, before trailing off. Aziraphale hesitated; he felt as though the pitiful creature was owed some sort of explanation before he died.

“I’m sorry to have to smite you, demon. But Gabriel gave me orders and he’s quite... you know.” Aziraphale didn’t know how to continue. In the back of his mind he knows he shouldn’t lower his guard, demons could be quite tricky - especially when backed into a corner, but this felt different. He crouched next to pitiful figure, his features softening. He placed a hand on his shoulder, and the demon seemed shocked at the gesture, but didn’t fight him, like Aziraphale had expected.

“Hmng... you’re not Hassstur, are you?” The demon mumbled, barely audible as he seemed to become short of breath.

Aziraphale blinked slowly, shaking his head. The demon groaned, likely beginning to really feel the pain of the wound. Aziraphale looked to his chest, where the dagger was still buried.

“To,” the demon croaked, clutching at his chest, “to the world...”

_To the world_

The demon outstretched his blood-stained hand. His fingers briefly brushed against Aziraphale’s face, before his body disappeared from the spot on the ground, leaving behind a puddle of bloody rainwater. Aziraphale peered down, examining his withdrawn appearance in the murky water. A streak of blood ran down his face where the demon had touched him. Quickly, though, the rain washed it off.

There’s no way the demon would be able to do anything about his wounds, so he doubted he would last long. No point pursuing him, then. Not like he wanted to. He couldn’t heal him either, not a wound caused from a blessed blade. Why would he _want_ to anyway? They were mortal enemies, after all.

The puddle rippled. Wind howled and cut through his clothing. A shiver ran up his spine. It was all for the goodness of Heaven, was it not?

The thought wasn’t as comforting as he’d hope.

His eyes scanned the alley. The umbrella lay abandoned on the floor. He picked it up, although there wasn’t much point as he was already soaked, and the rain had already dissipated to a quiet dribble.

He’d never met the demon before. So why did he feel like he’d already spent a lifetime with him? And, as if he had made a horrible mistake somehow.


	10. A Perfect Sunday Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a little shorter than usual, but enjoy. We're super sorry for the absence. Also there's two people writing this fic and I feel like we've never stated that. We're trying our best but we both had exams and shit. Also, we'll have you know the fic is coming to an end in a couple of chapters. It's been fun. ;)

A  wicker  basket full of sandwiches and fruit dangled from Wensleydale’s arm, his eyes surveying the nearly empty streets around him - empty besides an old man walking his dog. Beside him, Pepper bobbed up and down impatiently . S he was carrying a hefty jug of orange juice and her brows were furrowed in deep concentration. Brian gripped the rusty iron gate belonging to Anathema’s cabin,  swinging it back and forth with his body weight restlessly . Adam waited beside them, having arguably the most important role of them all; holding the yellow ball and the purple, plastic ball thrower for Dog, who expectantly trailed after him , yipping excitedly .

The Them were enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon in  Tadfield \- one of many peaceful Sunday afternoons they had enjoyed after the almost End-of-the-world had taken place. This  particular Sunday afternoon involved a picnic under a tranquil blue sky, along with their neighborhood Witch 

Anathema opened  t he cabin door, Newt following closely behind . Anathema  fiddl ed with her keys for a bit before locking it. An agitated “finally _ ”  _ came from outside the cabin at the emergence of the two, the voice sounding suspiciously like Brian’s, although it was hard to tell for sure. The Them sprinted off ahead, leaving Anathema and Newt in the dust. 

Anathema paused for  a brief moment , adjusting her glasses slightly on the bridge of her nose. She smiled, taking in her surroundings. It was a  _ perfect _ afternoon to say the least.  The sun shone happily above her , the light clouds of the early morning having dissipated, making for the perfect Sunday for a picnic.

“You okay?” Newt asked beside her, wiping off a bit of imaginary dust from his shoulder. He was wearing the  brown  witchfinder jacket he always wore, as well as a smile that looked pleasant on his face. 

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she laughed, something genuine and light, as if she were a kid again. “More than okay,” she said, and  for once  she meant it.

Her palm pushed against the iron gate and it squeaked in retaliation. Adam and the other kids were still visible in the horizon, so hand in hand with Newt, she followed them to whatever picnic destination the kids had settled on. 

Cicadas screeched as the Them brushed against tall grass; their hearts flooding with joy. Anathema and Newt followed The Them at a genial pace,  _ for why rush _ ?  _ They still had the rest of their lives ahead of them, didn’t they _ ?

Despite everything appearing normal, more than normal –  _ perfect, even  _ – Adam still felt on edge. It was as if worms were crawling under his skin, and as he walked alongside his friends, they felt as if any moment, they would burst out. His thoughts buzzed around his subconsciousness like a disturbed beehive. They whispered, all at once;  _ what if everything goes wrong again? Are the other scared of you - of what a monster you are? They hate you. You don’t belong  _ _ here _ _ ; _ _ you belong down there. _

Adam shook his head softly , brown curls bouncing in the warm light . This was no time for doubts or insecurities. He was on the verge of turning twelve, and his  d ad said he had to be more responsible, otherwise he wouldn’t get the bicycle he wanted for his birthday. Today was a perfect Sunday afternoon - there wasn’t much too it. After the picnic, maybe they’d go frog hunting by the river, or he’d come up with a fun game for all The Them to play.

They hadn’t made it much farther than the fifth house from Anathema’s cabin, when a sickening pop  filled the air. It made their stomachs lurch, for somehow, they all sensed that whatever that noise was, it wasn’t what you typically heard on a perfect Sunday afternoon.

The Them followed the noise back to the cabin, their gazes falling downwards simultaneously to the man crumpled on the floor, his black suit contrasting with the entirety of  Tadfield’s aesthetic. One quick glance at the figure and you could tell he didn’t belong here. Anathema had two arms wrapped around his armpits already , and she was heaving him up with all her might. “Newt, help me get him into the cabin, and you,” Her eyes stared intensely at The Them, “grab my healing supplies from the top left cabinet. Quick, he’s bleeding out fast.” 

Adam stared into the flame red hair of the crumpled figure, frozen to the spot. The injured demon heralded a bad omen, and he desperately hoped this wasn’t the start of something much, much worse. 

“Adam, what are you waiting for?” Came Pepper, poking her head outside the cabin doorway. He blinked, realizing he was the only one still outside beside Dog. Following Pepper inside, he hoped that the demon was going to okay, and he hoped the demon’s angel companion was safe, too. He had taken quite a liking the  both of them . 


End file.
